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“I told you, be careful what you wish for.”
“Ooh.” My heart racing, I taunt him, wondering how far I can push him. “Promises, promises. You’re such a good boy. Far too good to let the naughty side free.”
He stops moving and his eyes narrow. Uh-oh.
Moving back, he withdraws, then flips me over onto my stomach in one easy move before positioning himself between my legs. In seconds, he’s pushed up my knee, pressed the tip of his erection down through my folds, and then without any warning, he thrusts forward, hard.
I groan and bury my face in the pillow.
“What?” he asks, kissing the back of my neck. “You give it, but you can’t take it?”
“Holy shit.”
“Lie down baby, and open wide,” he sings in a low voice in my ear, “Want you to take my ice cream all inside…”
“Ah, fuck.”
He sets up a fast rhythm, thrusting hard. I try to lift up onto my elbows to give myself some purchase, but he places a hand in the middle of my back, pushing me down again, then wraps my hair around his hand and yanks my head back.
“This what you want, baby girl?” he murmurs. He crushes his lips to mine, plunging his tongue into my mouth, and I moan and open my legs wider to give him better access. He takes advantage of the position and rides me hard, filling the air with the smack of his hips against my butt, the sensual sounds of sex, and our deep groans, as he fucks me right through to the weekend.
“Ah, ohhh…” I can feel my orgasm building, and for a moment I wonder whether he’s going to stop and edge me again, but then I realize he’s close to coming himself. Instead, he drives harder, thrusting me all the way over the cliff, and as my body clenches around him, he shudders and stills, spilling inside me.
We stay like that for ages, gasping for breath as our bodies take over, and then they finally release us, and we both collapse forward onto the pillows.
Ah jeez, he’s heavy on top of me. Our skin is sticking together, and his breath is hot on my ear. He grunts and withdraws, but doesn’t move off me.
“Fuck,” he says.
“Yeah,” I reply, with feeling.
Lit by the moonlight, we fall asleep, not even bothering to draw the duvet up.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Alex
I come to my senses gradually, as if I’m swimming from the dark depths of a pool toward the sunlight at the surface.
I open one eye. I’m lying sprawled on my front, arms tucked under a pillow. The space next to me is empty. I extract my hand and squint at my watch. It says 08:09. Wow. I haven’t slept past seven a.m. for years.
With some effort, I push up onto my elbows and look around. The curtains are open, fluttering in the breeze from the gap in the sliding doors. Jeez, that sunlight is bright. I can’t see Missie, but I can hear her in the kitchen. It sounds as if she’s making coffee. So she hasn’t done a runner, then.
I run my tongue over my teeth. My mouth tastes like someone’s boiled socks in it. Luckily I wasn’t sick last night, not that I remember, anyway, despite having drunk enough whisky to fill a swimming pool. I crashed out, and I didn’t even rouse to visit the bathroom.
Talking of which—my bladder is about to burst. I stumble out of bed, visit the bathroom, wash my hands, splash my face with water, glare at my reflection, then go back into the bedroom. I open my case, find some clean boxers and a pair of track pants and put them on, then wander out.
Sure enough, she’s in the kitchen. She glances at me as I come out, does a double take, looks at my hair, then laughs. “Wow.”
Wincing against the harsh sunlight, I run a hand through my hair, then scratch the stubble on my chin. “Morning.”
“It’s the Walking Dead,” she says. “You look like you need a cup of coffee.”
“More than I need air to breathe.” I go around the breakfast bar into the kitchen and take the cup she pushes over to me. I have a big mouthful and sigh as I swallow. Ahhh… that’s heavenly. “Thank you.”
She sips her own drink, watching me over the rim with much amusement. Although she clearly hasn’t been up long—she’s wearing my shirt and her hair is also unruly—she looks amazing, whereas I look like a werewolf.
“Don’t mock me,” I mumble, leaning a hip against the worktop. “I’ve got one hell of a hangover.”
